


The Pilgrimage

by Salsify_LotR



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-23 23:42:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salsify_LotR/pseuds/Salsify_LotR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hundred years before Bilbo's unexpected party, Balin and Dwalin joined another expedition to the Lonely Mountain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 2840

Mirkwood, 2941

 

"Good-bye! Be good, take care of yourselves--and DON'T LEAVE THE PATH!" 

Gandalf's words floated faintly back to them as he rode away, leaving them to face Mirkwood alone. 

"If we must go in there again, I'd rather just go instead of listening to Gandalf warn us about it for an hour beforehand," said Dwalin to Balin.

Balin nodded as the two of them stood staring into the darkness under the trees. The others marched ahead; Thorin was in a fey mood and Balin doubted that anything but the need to reach the Lonely Mountain weighed with their king any longer. Thorin had always taken after his father, but now the resemblance was so strong that it was terrifying. If Balin closed his eyes, it was as if the hundred years in between had never happened. He half expected to hear Frer and Frór join Bombur in worrying over whether the supplies that Beorn had given them would last until they reached the other side. 

Bilbo, bringing up the rear, stopped as well and frowned. "My goodness, what a gloomy looking wood! Isn't that entirely typical of this trip? We follow what used to be a road straight into a forest where I doubt there has ever been a decent inn while Gandalf rides off in the opposite direction! How long did he say it would take us to cross?” When no answer was forthcoming, the hobbit sighed and squared his shoulders. “Well, the sooner we go in, the sooner we come out on the other side. Perhaps we can get a proper meal and an ale over there," he said and started after the others. 

Mirkwood was the last place that Balin had ever wanted to see again, but if they were to reclaim Erebor, then Bilbo was right. Wavering here at the edge of the forest would not get them through it. Balin gave his brother an encouraging thump on the shoulder and murmured, "It was only ever Thráin that they were after." 

Dwalin did not mention that it was Thráin’s son who led them now, though the thought was clear in his expression. Balin appreciated his brother's tact; they had argued fiercely with Thorin ever since Gandalf announced on Carrock that he would not be coming with them, but had been unable to persuade the king to change his plans. Crossing Mirkwood could never be safe or easy, but Balin thought it could be done with Gandalf’s help, even if the evil creatures that lived there still had an interest in the heir of Durin’s Line. Mirkwood had already proved able to defeat them when they did not have a wizard’s aid, but Thorin was determined to reach the Lonely Mountain as soon as possible now and would listen to no advice that warned against haste. 

Bilbo gave them an odd look as he trotted past, no doubt wondering why the two dwarves thought him so timid when they were frightened of some gloomy-looking trees. If it were only that! Pushing aside thoughts of his previous encounter with Mirkwood, Balin caught his brother's eye and jerked his head towards the forest. Softly, because they both knew how keen Bilbo's ears were, he murmured, "Can't be shown up by the hobbit, can we?"

Dwalin nodded, though his face was bleak, and they followed the others into the darkness. 

***

Near the Blue Mountains, Winter 2840 

Thráin, king of the dwarves of Durin's Line and veteran of the terrible battle of Azanulbizar, handed over the iron pot he had just repaired. The baker's wife looked both him and the pot over suspiciously. She tested the mended handle twice to make sure the work was up to her standard, though Balin thought that anyone who wasted her money on such shoddy goods in the first place had no hope of realizing that Thráin’s work would outlast the rest of the pot. 

She tossed the king some copper. "Be off with you now. We've no more for you to mend here and the headman doesn't take kindly to vagrants, especially at this time of year."

Balin could hear Thráin grind his teeth even behind his heavy beard, but the king said nothing and pocketed the copper pieces. The woman walked away with her cooking pot, the last of the villagers who had come to have the dwarves repair their household goods. Even before her comments, Balin knew they would not return to this village for any future market days. They would barely break even on this trip and the disrespect only cemented the decision. He gathered their tools and loaded the cart without a word. It was only after they left the market square that Thráin said, "Would you be interested in seeing the Lonely Mountain again?"

Balin stopped dead in the middle of the lane, the handles of the cart slipping from his fingers. Surely he couldn’t mean…. Thráin continued on for several paces before he realized he had left the young dwarf and their cart behind. He turned back and said, "Well, what do you say? It will be a small party—between ten and twenty of us—but there will always be room for you and Dwalin if you choose to join us."

Balin could only stare. Thráin might as well ask one of the Dúnedain if they would like to have Númenor returned to them! Though he had been very young when Smaug attacked, he still had some memories of the Lonely Mountain. Even people of low estate scorned them now, but he could recall the enthusiastic pride of the young Daleman whom Fundin had taken as an apprentice. And well the boy might have preened himself, with all the glorious things they had crafted in Erebor: weapons and armor of the highest quality, stonework that would endure for thousands of years, brilliant gems. 

In those days, there had even been time to lavish on toys. His mother had had a little enameled bird that performed different songs and movements according to the time of day. So cunningly was it wrought that even seventy years later, his fingers still itched to explore the mechanism. No one now could tell him how it was done; Smaug had killed its maker and her apprentices and the secret was lost. The bird still fluttered through his dreams now and then, reminding him of what the dragon had stolen from them.

Thráin was still waiting for an answer. 

"But how can we hope to defeat the dragon?" asked Balin. Few of those who had escaped Smaug had been able to carry away more than the clothes they wore. The weapons and armor that they had been able to make in the years since were still better than anything else made in Middle-earth in these declining years, but they were no more use than toothpicks against a dragon.

Thráin's cheek twitched beneath his good eye. "The time has not yet come when we can hope to retake the Mountain. Perhaps we may slip in and recover a few trifles from the riches that were stolen from us. If not, then we mean to go as near as we dare to the land that was ours, to look on what remains and remember."

Balin looked away. It must have cost Thráin terribly to admit that they could not retake the Lonely Mountain. The king was nearly as proud as his father had been, and Thrór’s pride had cost him his life. But might it not be better to take that risk than to be reduced to mending cheap pots and being looked down on by the likes of that baker's wife wherever they went?

"Who else will be in the party? Is Thorin going too?" Balin asked, trying to decide who would be most interested in making a pilgrimage to the Mountain. If it was to be a party chosen from dwarves in their prime, he and Dwalin might find themselves a bit isolated in the group. As much as he respected the veterans of the War of the Dwarves and Orcs, the distance between them and the younger dwarves sometimes seemed impassable. Balin had been just old enough to accompany his father to Azanulbizar but instead he had been stuck at home waiting for his hand to heal from a foolish accident in the forge. He tried not to wonder if people thought he had done it on purpose. 

"Thorin will remain here. Durin’s House cannot be left without a leader, and it will be good experience for him to rule without my guidance for a time. I have not yet spoken to everyone I am considering for the party, but I believe Heri will join us, and An and his sons, and Nur and Móin and Nidri.”

Balin frowned a bit at the list. He hadn’t imagined a group anything like this one. He thought Nidri and Nur were from one of the more far-flung branches of the Longbeard nobility, but knew nothing more than that, including how he had come by that impression. 

Heri, on the other hand, he had met many times before. After the fall of the Lonely Mountain, the band of refugees led by his grandfather, Farin, had met up with Heri on the road. Though he was from a different House and under no obligation to them, he had looked after them like kin and taught them what they needed to know about their new lives as wanderers. 

Though Heri had been in and out of their camps more often than some of Balin’s actual cousins, Balin wasn’t sure he could claim to know Heri well. No one could. If asked, Heri always said he was a commoner. Balin guessed from his manners and accent that this was true, but he had also heard Heri say once that he was of the Firebeards, and another time that he was a Stonefoot. Since there were no two Houses of dwarves more distant than those, at least one claim was probably a lie. If Balin were old enough to have a daughter, he would not introduce her to someone whose past was such a mystery, but Heri was a welcomed addition to any group of travelers. Without his knowledge, many more refugees would have perished in the first years of their wandering. 

Móin, he knew, was a distant cousin but he was not able to remember the exact relationship. Balin had met him a few times, but knew little of him beyond that he had fought alongside Fundin in the vanguard at Azanulbizar, and that he had a good reputation in their community. He had been one of the dwarves who brought them the news of Fundin’s death. An, though, was another matter.

“I would not have expected to see An on such a journey,” he said, hoping it was both discreet enough and still able to get his point across.

Thráin snorted. “You know him only by his family’s reputation, then. The rest of his kin may have shaved off their beards, but he is a true dwarf. He has parted from them and is doing his best to raise his sons to remember our ways. That is no easy task in these days. In fact, his sons are part of the reason I spoke to him about the journey. Anar and Hanar are not much older than you and Dwalin, and I thought you would be more comfortable with some companions of your own age.”

Balin nodded at the mild rebuke. He had been thinking of the talk he had heard around the village. An’s family and their attempts to act less dwarvish had been the subject of years of scandalized gossip. ‘They shaved off their beards’ was only a figure of speech, but An’s sister had actually done it. She had cut off her lovely amber-colored beard because Men found beards on women disgusting. Balin had not heard that An had married and had children. Maybe having children had convinced him to break with the rest of his family and teach his sons to be dwarves and not imitation humans. 

“I’ll have to think about it," he said, knowing that this was nothing that he could decide while he stood here in the street. "I have my mother and brother to consider as well."

Thráin nodded. Balin thought he looked pleased rather than disappointed by the display of devotion to family. "Talk it over with them. If your mother feels she can spare you, I would be glad of your company. Should you and Dwalin decide to join us, be ready to set out from the Michel Delving in the Shire by the first of May. Móin and some of the others have business that will keep them in Dunland until spring, but they will meet up with us there." 

Balin returned the nod, picked up the handles of the cart and started down the road again.  
For the rest of the way, Thráin said little and Balin, even less. After all the slights and hardships of the last seventy years, just the chance to look on Erebor from a distance sounded like it might be worth a long journey through the wilderness. Even so, he wondered if there might be more to the pilgrimage than Thráin had been willing to admit. Balin couldn't quite picture Thráin looking on the ruins of the kingdom that should have been his and going away quietly. It was madness to consider anything else, but Balin had to admit that Thráin was capable of doing just that. And why not? If he hadn't had his family to consider, he would already have said yes, madness or not. 

By the time he parted from Thráin and reached his family's house, Balin had decided that he was going to turn Thráin's offer down. Though everything in him strained towards the Lonely Mountain, reason insisted there was scant hope of a happy outcome and a good chance of disaster. Still, he could not keep from dreaming.

Dwalin had not yet returned from the village whose market he had gone to work, but their mother was at home and in the forge. She had just drawn a rod from the coals and did not see him come in as she bent the glowing iron around two pegs to curve it into a pothook. As she plunged the completed hook into the bucket of water, she noticed him standing there and asked, "How did it go at the market?"

How was he supposed to describe a day in which he had watched ignorant villagers treat the king of the dwarves of Durin's line as a common vagrant, and been offered a chance to throw his life away on a trip to Erebor? His baffled silence lengthened to the point that his mother set aside her hammer and came around the forge for a closer look.

"What happened, Balin?"

After another failed attempt to condense the day's events into something approaching sense, he finally abandoned half the tale and said, "Thráin is going to go back to see the Lonely Mountain again and he asked me to go with him."

A stream of expressions passed over her face too quickly for him to identify. In the end, her face was solemn as she said, "When are you leaving?"

Swallowing his shock, he said, "I'm not going. It's madness; we can't hope to kill the dragon, and what is the sense of traveling all that way if we can do no more than hide in the underbrush and look at some ruins from leagues away?"

His mother's face grew even more solemn. "You should go even though it is dangerous, and take Dwalin with you." She scooped up a handful of pothooks and held them out to him. "He thinks this is all we are: wandering makers of simple tools and hardware. He has heard the stories, but he doesn't know them in his bones the way those of us do who remember the Lonely Mountain. He has never seen that there is anything more to dwarven craftsmanship than this apprentice work." She let the hooks clatter back into the box. 

"I don't want to lose any more of my family, but even less do I want my sons to accept what outsiders say of us as the truth. Balin, your brother never saw Erebor. No matter how many times I tell him, he will never understand that he comes of a great people until he sees for himself what we could do when we were in our own land." Her voice took a desperate edge. "Perhaps we do only the most menial tasks now, but I won't have either of you come to accept it! You are direct descendants of Durin himself, and you must be able to lead our people if anything should happen to Thorin and Dáin. How can you do that if you believe that we belong to a cursed and despicable race?"

Balin had no answer for that, and the urge to go to Erebor welled up even stronger. Maybe he had less self-control than he had thought. He should not let her talk him into this. She had no other relatives closer than Dáin or Glóin and the thought of her having to make her way on her own was repellant. It was not that she was unable to care for herself: her skill in the forge would keep her fed, and he had seen what she could do to bandits when she was armed with nothing more that the tools from her forge, but outsiders had little respect and fewer manners where dwarf-women were concerned. 

The few who believed that dwarf women even existed mocked them openly. What kind of a son would leave his mother to go out among the ignorant just to indulge his own whims? She deserved better than to have to deny her sex in order to walk among the other races without snickers and pointed fingers. 

She must have seen something of his thoughts in his expression, because she gave his shoulder a little shake and said, "Go, Balin, go and see the Lonely Mountain again. Seeing it, even in ruins, will give you strength to outlast the slights we have to endure now. I will be fine. I've already heard everything Men say about us—nothing but words, and most of them wrong in any case. It reflects worse on them than it does on us. You must not refuse this journey on my account." 

Her eyes went to the eastern horizon, and she was silent for a moment before she began to sing. 

“No longer do the hammers ring  
In the mountain’s deepest heart,  
For the great mansion lies in ruins  
And our people are cast out.

I would give all I possess,  
All the skill of my hands,  
That the halls of my people  
Could be ours once again.”

The song had already been an old one on the night when Smaug roared down upon the mountain, but Erebor was hardly the first home his people had lost. In the years since, it had become a favorite of the refugees. He had heard the words many times before, and he had always understood them figuratively. His elders, he began to realize, meant them literally. His mother would truly rather lose the use of her hands than give up her hope of returning to the Lonely Mountain. 

Suddenly his desire to go with Thráin seemed far less ridiculous. He had wanted to go since Thráin first brought the matter up, but his duty to his mother held him back. Now it seemed that she was even more determined than he was that he and Dwalin should go. If the Mountain mattered more to her than craftsmanship, she would never hold her sons back from the journey. 

His memories of Erebor were hazy and incomplete; he knew he had seen the Arkenstone, but all he could recall of it was a vague impression of dazzling light and awe. They could not hope to recover the Arkenstone--that was undoubtedly in the deepest part of Smaug's lair--but even if all they saw were some broken bridges and the ruins of Dale, that alone would be enough to restore their hope and pride. And someday, who knew? Erebor might be theirs again if they did not let go of their resolve.

The first wash of enthusiasm carried him through until supper. When Balin told his brother of the planned journey, Dwalin looked simultaneously pleased and skeptical. 

“I really do want to go, Balin,” he said as they sat around the table, “but this plan of Thráin’s bothers me. Is there something else to it that he isn’t telling us? When has he--or even Thorin for that matter--ever put that much effort into accomplishing so little?”

His mother toyed with a slice of meat that she didn’t appear to see, and said quietly, “I think the war would qualify.”

He saw Dwalin flinch, and had all he could do to avoid it himself. After Fundin died at Azanulbizar, she had never willingly brought up the war again, and responded to any attempt to praise him in her presence with a remote politeness that persuaded most people not to do that again. 

After a long uncomfortable pause, he said, “I can see that. It still seems to me, though, that he must have a grander plan than the one he told to Balin. I don’t recall all that went on before the war, but wasn’t there talk of retaking and settling the lands that the orcs had held? Maybe even Moria?”

Balin shrugged. “I don’t think that anyone other than Thráin truly considered retaking Moria, but I do remember people saying that we could take and hold Gundabad, if not the whole of the northern Misty Mountains.” 

His mother shook her head as if to drive away a troubling thought. “Madness. We were too few even then to hold that amount of territory, but we were all afire with outrage, and no one was thinking clearly.”

“Maybe that is what makes it so hard for me to believe,” said Dwalin. “I can see the king deciding in a fury to take on a quest that has no reasonable hope of success and still managing to succeed somehow. We know he’s capable of that; he did it more than once before Azanulbizar. But since then, his decisions have always seemed to be careful and cool-headed. Is this the old Thráin come back again?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, twisting a strand of her beard around one finger as she considered. “The Thráin of the war years never counted the cost. How could he? When the orcs slew Thrór and desecrated his body, they told the world that they thought the dwarves were so weak or disloyal that we would let such an act go unpunished. Of course he fought! But after Azanulbizar, I think he finally understood that there were limits to what we could do. 

“ He probably does have some—intention, maybe, of spiriting away some treasure from under Smaug’s nose. I wouldn’t put it past him to have dreams of the Arkenstone, but even at his wildest, he has always had the sense to understand when something is truly impossible.”

Balin began to clear away the plates, saying over his shoulder, “That does not reassure me in the least, Mother. Should we find a way to turn him down?” 

She and Dwalin rose to join him in the kitchen. They had been considering hiring a servant to deal with the heavier housework for a year or so, but some minor disaster had always intervened to gobble up all their spare coin, so Dwalin scoured and Balin rinsed and dried, and their mother tucked the plates away in the chest. 

As she put away the knives and spoons, she said, “No, I don’t think there is any need of that, and you can be reassured. Remember that he listened when Dáin told him that Moria could not be retaken, even though Dáin was barely more than a child at the time. Thráin can be rash, but he is more careful of his people than he is of himself, and he will take advise from others, though it can hardly be said that he accepts it graciously.”

Balin smothered a smile as he hung up the dishcloth. According to those who had been there, Thráin had been anything but gracious. In the end, though, he had given up his plans to retake Moria because his people told him no. Balin was no great scholar, but he could easily think of several kings in Middle Earth who would have done much worse than rant and fume in a similar situation.

His mother continued, “By the same token, there are few better than Thráin at accomplishing things that seem impossible. I believe that you will be as safe with him as with anyone, and stand a good chance of doing all you set out to do or more. But if you feel that you will not be able to stand firm if you are right and he is wrong, you would do better to stay here.” 

Balin caught his brother’s eyes. Dwalin looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. Thráin was their king and their elder, but they were also of the Line of Durin. It might not be easy, but if Thráin tried to push them towards a foolish choice, he thought they could set protocol aside and push right back. He turned back to his mother and said, “We will go.”


	2. Chapter 2

Spring, 2841 – From the Shire to the Fords of Bruinen

 

The Willow Tree Inn in Michel Delving deserved its good reputation among dwarven travelers, but after a week or so even the best inn ran out of charm. Balin sat on a bench outside the inn, occupying himself with watching hobbits so that he would not be as tempted to dash back and forth urging the rest of the party to hurry. The last members of the group had arrived the night before and the brothers, Frer and Frór, refused to go to sleep before they had taken stock of the provisions and put together lists of what they thought was still lacking. The resulting discussion lasted long into the night, and their plan of setting out by daybreak had fallen by the wayside. 

It was the first market day following a long spell of heavy rain, and the streets were crowded and bustling. A startling number of children, both boys and girls, played around the outskirts of the market. Even after spending most of his life among other races, he had to continually remind himself that they were not being as careless with their daughters as it appeared. He had heard that other races might fall in love several times instead of only once, and it seemed to be true from what he had seen. If a girl could lose her heart to a ne’er-do-well but come to her senses and fall in love with someone more worthy of her, then perhaps parents did not need to make sure that no wastrels ever crossed their daughter’s path. They might only need to make sure that she did not marry one of them. It still unsettled him that other races were willing to risk their daughters that way, but they must know best about their own children.

Eventually, a small group of children collected in the lane in front of the inn and were interfering with the flow of traffic as they watched him watch them. They whispered and giggled among themselves until one of them built up the courage to creep closer. Balin waited for the child to show an interest in his beard, but she was riveted by his boots instead.

Dwarves’ beards were what seemed to catch the eyes of most other races, but looking at the thick curly hair on the children’s feet, Balin had to admit that the boots were probably just as strange as beards to the young hobbits. He stretched his legs out in front of him and made a great show of looking at the clouds. The little girl crouched just beyond arm’s length to inspect them, which eased Balin’s mind a bit. He had begun to think that hobbit children had no notion of self-preservation, which worried him because he was certain their parents were familiar with the concept and might want to blame him for their children’s lack of it. Fortunately, the little girl stayed at a prudent distance as she reported her discoveries about boots back to her friends, who seemed to find the whole idea hilarious. Balin smiled. If he could grow his own substitutes for boots and socks, he would probably agree. 

“Balin!” his brother called from down the lane. “Time to go!”

He scrambled to his feet, startling the girl so badly that she tipped over backwards. The other children squealed and scattered. Feeling very roguish and daring (oh, the frenzy that would result if he tried such a thing with a dwarf girl!), he offered her a hand up. She regarded him doubtfully for an instant before accepting. The others squealed even louder. On a whim, he gave the child his courtliest bow, prompting still greater uproar among her friends.

“Thank you Mr. Dwarf,” she said and returned him an awkward curtsy before she grinned and ran after the others. 

Balin went to join the other dwarves. Frór and Frer came from the direction of the market carrying bundles of what Balin assumed were the supplies they thought the party lacked. The rest of the group was already assembled. Dwalin stood beside Thráin, both of them dressed in their best travelling clothes. Thráin did not look precisely cheerful, but he was closer to it than Balin had seen him come since Smaug. Dwalin, on the other hand, was too excited to stand still. He rocked up and down on the balls of his feet, almost as if he were waiting for the start of a footrace. He had done his beard in an elaborate style in honor of the occasion, and the silver clasps that secured his jet black braids rattled as he fidgeted. When Dwalin’s effort to spruce himself up woke Balin before dawn, he had seriously considered kicking his brother, but he had to admit that result was impressive. 

On Thráin’s other side, Heri stood watching the group assemble. Despite his age, there was no trace of white among the brown of his beard, and he looked exactly as he did in Balin’s childhood memories of the flight from the Lonely Mountain. Unlike the others, Heri wore ordinary working clothes, and there were shadows of old mud stains at the hems of his trousers. At first, Balin felt vaguely offended that Heri had not taken more care with his appearance on such an important day, but then he realized how ridiculous he was being. For a trader like Heri, travelling was an ordinary day’s work even when the destination was a grand one. 

Beyond him, Móin loomed over the rest, half a head taller than anyone else. Every few minutes, he glanced down the road and checked the angle of the sun. If it had been any of the others, Balin would scarcely have noticed, but it was Móin. The people of the Blue Mountains had joked about his impassive nature for years. For him, that was on the same level as Dwalin’s overdressing. 

An and his sons watched silently from the fringes of the group. Balin had been hoping to talk with the younger dwarves, but starting a conversation with them was as hard as cleaning up spilled quicksilver. Every time he headed in their direction, they were suddenly somewhere else. No matter; once the journey was underway, there would be fewer distractions. The other four--Nidri, Vestri, Nur, and Vili--had arrived the day before with Frór and Frer and he had not had a chance to get acquainted with them yet. 

As the last two reached them, Thráin looked around the group and said, “If everyone is ready, let us be on our way.”

Balin shared a grin with Dwalin. Now the journey really began. Of course, travelling through the Shire on a sunny spring morning was not exactly high adventure, but Balin still remembered what it was like to be flung straight from a comfortable home into danger and deprivation. He was happy enough to work up to it gradually this time. For now, the roads were good, the Shire was lush and peaceful, and if Frór and Frer were still whispering about things that they thought were lacking from the supplies (and it sounded like they were), then the Shire was known for its well-stocked markets. 

The party made good time through the gentle countryside, and reached their intended stopping place in Waymeet despite their late start. That was just as well. Hobbits could be surprisingly unfriendly if they found travelers sleeping under a hedge on their lands, but every town of any size in the Shire had a decent inn. The one in Waymeet was exceptional even by hobbit standards. 

Once they had cleaned up a bit, Anar and Hanar announced that they were ready to eat. Balin’s stomach rumbled in agreement. The walk had given him quite an appetite, and he supposed that Anar and Hanar felt the same. They were the first of the group to arrive in the parlor where the supper was laid out. Because of the size of the group, the landlord had squeezed in an extra table, half-hidden by the door, and they sat down there. The better tables were for Thráin and the older dwarves. The food looked as equally good at all the tables, and the young dwarves waited impatiently as the others began to come in. 

“Still, the rumors were disturbing. Are you sure of him?” Nur was saying as he walked in with Móin. “With a company this small, we cannot afford any we cannot rely….” He noticed who was already in the room and broke off his comment.

“Gossip is more fool’s gold than true gold,” said Móin dismissively, “I fought alongside Fundin before he fell at Kheled-zaram, and he was proud of his sons. He did not bear cowards or shirkers well, even among his kin, so that should tell you how far to trust the rumors.” 

Nur’s eyebrows shot up, and he looked at them with new respect. “I beg your pardon,” he said, nodding to Balin. 

Balin nodded back, and could think of nothing sensible to say in return before Nur and Móin turned to go to Thráin’s table. If he had been trying to get out of going to war, there were simpler ways to do it than the long chain of misunderstandings and incompetence that ended with his hand smashed in the mill. But for those who did not know exactly what happened, the timing must look suspicious. He wondered briefly if that was part of why Thráin had asked him to join the party and not Dáin or one of their other cousins. 

When he turned back to his own table, the sons of An were staring at him. One of them said, “Your father fell at Nanduhirion?”

The other elbowed him hard and the first quickly corrected himself, “Er, Dimrill Dale?”

“Azanulbizar, Hanar!” hissed his brother, glaring. Hanar flushed and sank down in his seat. 

“Yes, he did,” said Balin. It was odd to hear Hanar call the battle by its elvish name, but he did not want to think about his father tonight. Balin had been very young when Fundin died, and as time passed, he could remember less and less about his father. He thought he could remember the sound of his father’s voice, but was afraid he had muddled it together with Dwalin’s because Thráin sometimes remarked on how much Dwalin sounded like Fundin. A son owed it to his father to keep his memory fresher than that. 

Dwalin looked back and forth between the others at the table and set to his meal with even more enthusiasm than the food warranted. Balin cast about for some inoffensive topic for conversation, but nothing came to mind except things that were clearly going to be uncomfortable. It was traditional to begin by asking after the other person’s family, but they were probably as unhappy as Balin was about leaving their mother on her own, and only a dolt would ask about the rest of the family when they were known to be at odds. 

“Have you ever been east of the Mountains before?” he asked finally. 

“No,” said Anar, “Have you?”

“No,” said Dwalin, “but Balin was born in the Lonely Mountain, so he has.”

“Really? What is it like there?” asked Hanar, leaning forward a little. 

Balin shrugged. “I was not much more than a baby at the time. I remember very little.” He was not about to tell two near strangers that most of what he remembered after they fled from Smaug was being various combinations of cold, wet, hungry, tired and frightened. 

“Oh,” said Hanar, and went back to prodding at his meat and looking uncomfortable. After a few minutes, he began, “I was wondering about….” Balin heard a muffled thump and Hanar flinched and closed his mouth. Had Anar kicked him under the table? 

Another long silence fell. Finally, it was too much for Balin and he fell back on the same question every young dwarf used when he had trouble making conversation, “Which crafts have you apprenticed in?”

To his surprise, both of the sons of An flushed and scowled. Anar snapped, “If you will excuse us, my brother and I were up too late last night and we should get some rest while we can.” He rose, bowed curtly, and towed Hanar along with him as he stalked off towards the sleeping rooms.

Dwalin watched them go. “What was that about?”

Balin could only shrug and wonder. 

 

They had only one more day of fair weather before the rains began again. 

“Oh bother!,” said Nidri, stopping to unpin the plain metal ironmaster’s brooch from his hood and stow it in a small oilcloth pouch under his jacket. Balin raised an eyebrow. 

“It rusts,” said Nidri with a rueful grin. “Iron, you know.”

Balin nodded. He knew that few craftmasters displayed their insignia when they traveled, but he had never considered that it was for any reason beyond tradition.

Nidri’s grin broadened. “It could be worse.” He gestured discreetly towards Frór and Nur, who were quickly packing away their much more elaborate brooches. “The silk in the steelmasters’ brooches isn’t colorfast. If theirs get wet, they end up with red stripes on their cloaks.” 

The steelsmiths’ guild had the reputation of being a bit haughty, and picturing them with their brooches weeping dye over their best cloaks made Balin want to grin too. Frór seemed pleasant enough, but Balin had met more than one steelsmith who was completely insufferable because his craft was so much in demand by outsiders. 

Nidri pulled out an ordinary brooch and pinned his hood with that instead. “I had hoped the good weather would last at least until we left the Shire, but no such luck!”

“I think that I would rather have the bad weather while we still have good inns each evening, and save the clear weather for the Wilderlands,” commented Dwalin. 

“True, true. But I still hate to see a perfect bit of road without some perfect weather to go with it. So do the two of you have any family waiting for you at home?

“Yes, our mother,” said Balin. “She keeps a smithy in the foothills of the Blue Mountains.” 

“Ah, another ironsmith! My wife is clockmaker. She is in the Blue Mountains as well, with our son and daughter. My son is apprenticed in a foundry there, and my daughter is a clockmaker like her mother.”

Balin was a bit surprised by the mention of Nidri’s daughter. Families were always trying to engineer a way to introduce Thorin to their daughters, but it would be years before Balin was old enough to be an eligible match. “You have a skillful family,” he said, falling back on the blandly inoffensive. It had the benefit of being true in this case; clock making was a demanding craft, and blacksmiths had to be particularly talented to make a living since every race had smiths of their own who could forge simple items of iron.

“Thank you,” said Nidri, as if the compliment had been well thought out. 

After the incident with the sons of An, Balin had started to wonder if his conversational skills were really poor enough to account for the strange reactions he kept getting to mere commonplaces. But before he could worry too much, Nidri had already launched into a very complicated tale about transporting a load of his wife’s clocks to the Shire. When that tale was done, he jumped straight into one about a hobbit he had once met in Bree, and then to a third involving the foul-tempered pony from the first tale. Balin wanted to laugh at his earlier anxiety; apparently Nidri spoke about everything enthusiastically and at great length.

By the time they reached Bree a few days later, Balin had still been unable to coax more than a word or two out of the sons of An and had given up trying. If Thráin wanted his young cousins to have companions of their own age, he might have at least found ones that were less standoffish. The two of them were nearly identical, but after some study, Balin decided Hanar’s hair was a shade darker than his brother’s. It was still close enough that he could only tell them apart when they stood next to each other. 

The rain had continued the whole way, and Dwalin was grinning and jostling him as if they were ten years old again when the walls of Bree came in sight. “Dry clothes! Good beer!”

“Calm down, Dwalin. You’ll frighten the gatekeeper, hopping about that way,” said Balin sternly, but he couldn’t help grinning a little himself, and there might have been the slightest bounce in his own step when they entered The Prancing Pony. 

After they had made themselves presentable and eaten a good meal, the dwarves gradually made their way to the common room. Balin and Dwalin had lingered over their dinner and were among the last to arrive. An and his sons, along with Nidri, Nur, Vili and Frer had joined the noisy group surrounding a pair of local storytellers, while the rest were seated in a quieter corner talking to a travel-worn man who was dressed like one of the Wood-men who lived between the Misty Mountains and Mirkwood. Balin thought the stories might be more to his taste this evening, but was not ready for another failed conversation with Anar and Hanar, so he turned towards Thráin’s group. Dwalin shrugged and went in the other direction. 

“How close was the water to the road by the marshes?” asked Vili as Balin walked up. 

“When I passed the Midgewater Marshes, there was standing water no further from the road than this room is across. Another heavy rain will put the road underwater where it passes closest to the marshes.”

“I’ve only seen it that close once before. You say the weather is as wet as that clear to the Bruinen?”

“So I’ve heard from those I trust, and what I’ve seen myself bears it out. The ford will not be passable until the rains stop,” the man was saying. “I spoke to one of the Rangers and he said the river was out of its banks and still rising when he last saw it. It will not fall again soon. No matter which direction they came from, everyone has had rain and more rain.” 

“The weather has not favored us, but it is out of our hands,” said Thráin. “I had not heard that there was any place other than the fords to cross the Bruinen. You mentioned another trail; what of it?”

Brunn said, “There is a path on the west side of the river that you can follow far enough into the headwaters to cross there. I have gone that way before. It’s not fit for carts or wagons, but going afoot as you are, it will get you to the pass sooner than the East Road itself if the river is still in flood. If the weather stays wet into the autumn, it will mean plenty of snow in the pass, so the earlier you reach the pass, the better.” 

Heri eyed the man skeptically. “I haven’t heard of any trail to the west of the river. You say a cart could not go that way—what about a laden pony? Could it manage that path?”

Brunn thought it over for a while, then said, “Yes, it could. There are a couple of places where it would be hard to ride a horse, but I think a pack pony could manage.” He noticed Balin standing behind Heri and said, “And now I think your friend here would like a seat. I’m off to get another beer before I turn in, but if you want to talk more about the trail, the landlord will know where to find me. Have a good evening, gentlemen.”

Thráin watched the man as he walked away. “Heri, what do you make of that?”

“I don’t trust any road on just one person’s recommendation, and I don’t know of anyone else who has ever gone that way. With traveler’s tales, things are rarely even half as good as the story makes them. It just doesn’t sound right--if he wouldn’t ride a horse on it, I can’t imagine how he thinks a loaded pack pony could manage.”

“Luckily for us, we have no pack ponies. We should still keep this western trail in mind,” said Thráin, signaling for another round of beer. “I mistrust this weather.” 

They did not stay much longer in the common room. After the good meal and drinks, Balin fell asleep quickly, but woke in the middle of the night to the roar of another downpour. He sighed and bunched the blanket around his ears to drown out the sound. If he could not make it go away, then at least he would not listen to it. 

 

As they approached and skirted the Midgewater Marshes over the next few days, Brunn’s gloomy predictions were fulfilled. The midges appeared first, and then a broad sheet of water dotted with half-drowned weeds covered the land north of the road. Finally the water overtopped the small rise that the road stood on and the dwarves splashed along through a shallow puddle. They pushed on until the road was above water again, and ended up making camp that night in the middle of the road for lack of anywhere else. 

Over the next few days, the land gradually rose and the standing water disappeared. It continued to rain more days than not as they passed through the bleak, open lands leading to Weathertop and beyond. Balin began to think his feet would never be dry again. When the company reached the Last Bridge, the water was nearly up to the bridge deck. Frer insisted that no one should cross until he had inspected the structure, and it took quite some time before he waved them all across. 

As they passed along the south edge of the Trollshaws, the older members of group grew nervous and insisted on doubling the watch at night. 

“I thought the road was supposed to be far enough south to avoid the trolls,” said Balin to Móin.

“It was supposed to be,” said Móin grimly. “Some of the refugees from the Lonely Mountain were attacked by trolls right on the road not far from here. The first few parties never saw any trolls, but it seems the creatures took notice of them. One of the parties they set upon was wiped out completely; the others that followed all had losses. The Rangers came out in force and drove the trolls far back to the north. I have not heard that the trolls have ventured onto the road since, but what they have done before, they can do again.” 

Balin passed the story along to Dwalin later. “I think it’s too wet even for trolls to go out,” Dwalin said as he laid his wet socks onto a slab of rock near the campfire. Most of the boulders that were close enough to the heat were already topped with socks, and the camp smelled of wet wool and feet. 

Balin glanced around to see if any of the older dwarves were in earshot before he replied, “You are probably right, but all the same, please don’t mention that theory in front of Móin.”


	3. Chapter 3

Heri looked out at the murky waters of the Bruinen churning over the ford and shook his head. “It’s close today, very close, but still too deep for us to cross.”

An’s sons shared a puzzled look. “How can you tell?” asked Hanar. Balin still couldn’t tell them apart without careful study, but it seemed to be fairly safe to assume that if one of them spoke, it was Hanar. The other brother pursed his lips and frowned—yes, that had to be Anar. Not only was he standoffish himself, but he always looked annoyed with Hanar when he was a little less aloof. 

Heri gave no sign that he had noticed Anar’s displeasure and went to stand beside Hanar. Looking at the river over the younger dwarf’s shoulder, Heri pointed to a spot near the middle. “See there? Wait, it’s gone again. There!” 

Hanar watched the river where he was directed and presently said, “Is that a rock just under the water?”

Heri clapped him on the shoulder so hard he staggered a bit. “So it is! You’ve good eyes on you, lad. When the ford is passable, the top of that rock sticks out of the water by about a foot. The water’s low and clear enough now that you can see the top of it if you know where to look, so we only need another couple of days without rain upstream to let us cross.” 

“If the sky is any guide, we will not get two days without rain,” said Thráin, looking northward where they could see more dark clouds building. “We have been here for weeks now. This should be the driest part of the summer, but the rains have not stopped. We must take the trail on the western side of the river and cross at the headwaters if we hope to cross the mountains this year.”

Heri scowled and shook his head. “Better to wait here for a little longer. I’ve never been that way, nor spoken to anyone who has. That Brunn fellow sounded honest enough, but if the trail was really as good as he describes it, there should be someone apart from him who’s used it, and there’s not. Mark my words, we’ll find this path to be no better than a game trail. It’s nothing but foolishness, and we’ll waste more time on an untried path than we will if we wait for the river to go down a bit and cross at the ford.”

Anar’s eyes went so wide that Balin nearly burst out laughing. Evidently, Balin wasn’t the only one in the party that Anar disapproved of. 

Thráin folded his arms and glared at Heri. “Remember, if you will, who leads this company.”

“You do,” said Heri promptly, “but you asked me to join you on this journey because of my knowledge of the road. Why invite me if you didn’t want my advice?”

For a moment, Thráin went very still. “I want your advice, but I am still king of Durin’s House and you would do well to curb your tongue.”

Heri chuckled. “And a fine House it is, but it’s not my House.”

“Whichever that may be,” muttered Vili. He might not have meant for Balin to overhear, but he had, and his family still owed Heri for his assistance. Balin shot Vili a disgusted look, then pointedly looked away. 

Heri still had his eyes on Thráin and had not noticed Vili’s comment. “I’m happy to help Durin’s House when I can, but if you were looking for courtly manners, you came to the wrong dwarf. ” He paused and looked around the watching dwarves with a sly grin. “Now, Vestri there is a well-spoken fellow. Maybe I could have him polish up my words a bit for you.”

“That will not be necessary,” said Thráin, not quite managing to suppress a smile. After a quick and sobering glance at the river, he said, “I will give the ford two more days. If the water has not fallen by that time, we will try the western trail.”

“Fair enough,” said Heri.

 

It did not rain at the ford that night, but they could see lightning flashing to the north. In the morning, the river had risen and more storm clouds piled on the western horizon. Thráin grew impatient with the wait and took Móin with him to search out the blazed trees that marked the beginning of Brunn’s trail. They returned to report that the path looked promising as far as they had gone. 

The river rose steadily all day, until even Heri was shooting worried looks at the mountains beyond. They could not afford to wait much longer. The next morning they started up the western path.

The trail was in better condition than Balin had been expecting. They could only go single file, but the surface was firm and clear of underbrush. The path followed the river up into the mountains at a tolerable slope, and the valley was still fairly wide, though it was bound to narrow as they climbed. Around midday, the sun even came out for a few hours. 

The road did not stay good for long. Over the next two days, the trail narrowed and roughened until everyone had to admit that Heri’s prediction of ending up with a mere game trail had come true. The valley narrowed rapidly, but the path showed no sign of climbing up to the ridge top. As they went on through frequent showers, the expressions on Heri and Thráin’s faces grew steadily more uneasy. They watched the river and the clouds more closely than they did the path. 

On the third day, they woke to warm, sodden air and a bank of heavy clouds pushing towards the mountains. No one brought out any food for breakfast; Balin was too tense to have any appetite and set to readying his pack instead. 

“We have to get out of this valley now,” Heri said to Thráin in an undertone. Balin perked up his ears at the urgency in Heri’s voice but continued packing. 

Thráin looked up at the steep, rocky walls of the valley. “Is there time to go back to one of the side streams? This will be a difficult climb even for the hardiest among us.”

Heri peered upstream anxiously. “The river’s going to be out of its banks any minute now.” He waved an arm further up the valley. “Look how narrow the valley’s become. Once the wind pushes those clouds far enough up the mountains, it’s going to pour. Even a small storm could drown us all, and that one won’t be small. We have to get out now.”

Thorin nodded and flung his pack over his shoulder. “Choose the best route you can while I get them on their feet.” He turned to the others and shouted, “Everyone up! A flood coming and we must get out of the valley now.”

The others froze, startled, then began to throw what was not yet packed into their knapsacks. 

“Leave it,” ordered Thráin. “Follow Heri!”

They started up behind Heri with only what was already in their packs. The side of the valley was steep enough that they would be climbing all the way, and Balin could see no place where they could really rest before they reached the top. Heri climbed quickly on some sections, but on others, he moved cautiously, scanning the slope for as long as he dared and testing the stone before he trusted his weight to it. 

Before they were even halfway to the top, Balin’s arms shook from exertion, and he had to drape himself against the bluff to rest them for a few minutes. His old injury ached in the nagging way that he knew he could ignore for now, though he could not do so for much longer without consequences. He risked a look back at the valley. The rain was light here, but the river had covered the entire floor of the valley. Either they had made slower progress than he thought they had, or the water was rising very fast. As he watched, a boulder the size of an anvil bounced across their campsite as if it weighed no more than a cork. He shook the cramp out of the fingers on his damaged hand and continued to climb. 

Balin was in the middle of the group, and was finding the going treacherous where those ahead of him had packed down the sparse patches of soil. Heri appeared to be searching out the best footing he could, but there were some areas where they had no choice but to cross a steep patch of mud. Balin pressed his body as close against the mountain as he could and gouged toeholds into the earth though he did not trust them for an instant. He held his breath whenever he had to trust his weight to one. 

Dwalin was behind him in the line, and as they crossed one of those sections, Dwalin’s toehold gave way and he started to slide. Balin reached out instinctively but he was too far away to catch his brother. 

Dwalin clawed into the damp ground, but it was too soft to do more than slow his slide.

“Ware below!” called Frer, who had seen Dwalin slip but was no more able to help him than Balin was. 

The climbers below looked up in horror. Only Móin and Nidri, bringing up the rear, were still on a rock outcropping that might support them if Dwalin bumped into them. Directly below him, Vestri hunched and hid his face against the mountainside. He was on one of the worst sections, and too close to have any hope of getting out of the way without slipping himself.

Just a few feet above Vestri’s head, a small spur of rock jutted up. Balin bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. It might be strong enough to catch Dwalin, but he didn’t think his brother had seen it. 

Dwalin slid further. He flung out one hand to grab at a clump of stunted grass. It tore free under his weight, but his path had changed just enough that one foot thudded into the outcropping. He shoved upwards and got his other foot onto the rock as well and clung there. Vestri was showered with loose dirt and pebbles, but when nothing larger struck him, he looked up and began to smile. 

Dwalin stood there for a minute, breathing hard, before he began to haul himself back up. When he reached the place where he had slipped, he hesitated for a second, then started climbing again, skirting the area that had been packed slick. 

Balin watched him climb up to the next ledge of rock. “Don’t do that again, you fool!” he growled. “Couldn’t you see the dirt was mostly clay? It was bound to be slick!”

“Not thinking. Sorry.” Dwalin was still breathing too hard to argue. Evidently he had no trouble seeing through Balin’s attempt at fierce familial authority, because there was a hint of a smile on his face. Well, Balin had never been able to do that convincingly before, so it was hardly likely that he could manage it now. 

Balin began to climb again. It was still a long way to the top of the ridge. For now, his hand was working as it ought, but he could feel strain that told him he would be lucky if he could bend his fingers at all tomorrow. The healers said he had made a fine recovery, but they had told him quite bluntly that no matter how well it healed, his hand would always make him pay for overtaxing it. He rested his hand as much as he dared, but right now it was low on his list of concerns. 

He had long stopped thinking about anything except forcing himself to climb when he noticed that the bluff was not as steep as it had been. Looking ahead, he realized that they were almost to the crest of the ridge. A little below the very top was a small, stony hollow. Heri had already reached it and was sitting and waiting for them there. 

Balin threw all that was left of his energy into climbing. As soon as he reached the hollow, he cast aside his pack and collapsed onto the blessedly flat ground. Dwalin was right behind him, and did the same. 

Finally they were all in the hollow, panting and sweating even in the chilly mountain wind. They had no fuel for a fire—the ridge was barren rock—and several of them had left things behind that they were sure to miss sooner or later. Once they had rested and caught their breath, Frer and Frór took inventory of what the company still had. They had their heads together for a long while before Frór announced,” We still have most of the food, so there is one good thing. But we lost blankets and some clothing, and two cooking pots.”

Heri shrugged. “Not good, but we could have come out much worse. Everyone get some rest. There’s no telling when we’ll meet up with the path again, so we will be blazing our own trail for now.”

Heri was unexpectedly quiet about how accurate his predictions had turned out to be, but Thráin avoided meeting his eyes anyway. The group huddled together under the blankets they had left. Balin cradled his hand under his shirt, hoping that warmth now would stave off some of pain the next day. 

He was beginning to feel a little sorry for himself when Thráin said, “No matter how hard this day has been, at least we are over halfway to the Lonely Mountain now.”

In spite of everything, the others nodded and looked more cheerful.

“What was it like?” asked Dwalin. “Mother always says that the lights in the Chamber of Thrór were as bright as the sun.”

Thráin actually chuckled a little at that. “Well, the winter sun, perhaps. But there can be no doubt that the Chamber was a glorious sight. The lampwrights truly outdid themselves there. All of the guilds gave their finest: the stonework was so delicate and flawless that the Men of Dale believed that it had been done by magic. At the tables were vessels of gold and silver, beautifully proportioned and ornamented with gems of every kind. The hall itself was so large that every dwarf who lived in the Mountain could gather there, but so well-designed that when the King spoke, all could hear him as well as if he stood beside them. The families who lived there….”

Balin fell asleep smiling. 

 

He woke before dawn with his hand feeling as if it had been pulled into the mill again during the night. He gritted his teeth and tried without success to flex his fingers, but nothing was likely to help except time. When the others woke, Dwalin took one look at Balin’s face and packed his gear for him. Luckily for Balin, the top of the ridge was wide and flat enough that they were able to walk rather than climb all that day and the two that followed. 

The day after that, they met their next obstacle. For most of their climb, the slope of the ridge on the northwest side opposite the Bruinen was steep and rocky. Frer and Nur stooped from time to time to examine the stone, and their verdict was always the same: the stone on that side had weathered to the point where it was no longer trustworthy. They kept to the Bruinen side of the crest where the stonemasters said the rock was sturdier and made fair progress until the ridge curved around to run due east. They stopped short. There had been a landslide.

The north face of the ridge was gone, the crescent of raw stone reaching almost to the top of the ridge. Far below, the rubble had torn a wide path down through the trees to the bottom of the valley, where the flood waters were still cutting a new channel. The slide had left a narrow slice of the ridge behind, only a few inches wide and with dizzying drops on either side. 

Thráin frowned at the scar left by the slide and turned to Nur. “How sturdy is the stone that is left?” 

Nur beckoned to Frer and they squeezed past the others to have a closer look at the ridge. As the lighter of the two, Nur tied the end of rope into a harness and crawled a little ways out while Frer and Móin anchored him. He tapped and prodded at the stone for some time, then edged back to confer with Frer. 

“The rock is not badly fractured at the top of the ridge, but there is nothing to buttress it on the northern side, and this is not a particularly strong type of stone. My advice would be for only one person to cross at a time on the narrowest section: from there to there,” said Nur, pointing. “I can’t tell from here if it will be wide enough to walk across all of it, but it may be.”

“If the narrow part is short enough, we may be able to use the rope as a handrail for some of the group,” said Heri. 

Thráin nodded. “If we send a few of the most agile across with one end of the rope, half of us could cross with a handhold before we run short of people to anchor it on this end.”  
“Who goes first and last?”

Thráin looked around the group. Frer met his eye and said, “I’ll cross first. It will give me a chance to check the whole length of the route.”

“I can go next,” said Dwalin. “In spite of how it looked the other day, I am not really that clumsy.”

The rest of the group sorted itself out with Móin, Nur and Nidri bringing up the rear. Balin wanted to cross with Dwalin, but Thráin had forbidden it since his hand was still not completely recovered. 

Frer was able to walk much of the way, but there was a short section where it was so narrow that he carefully sank down to scoot himself along until it widened enough to walk on again. Dwalin and Hanar did the same. 

Vili watched as they crossed and said, “That’s well enough for the single fellows and the youngsters whose stones haven’t dropped, but I’d rather not have to explain to my wife that I scraped mine off on a mountaintop. Do you suppose with the rope we can cross the whole way on our feet?” 

After so long on the road together, none of them were still using their best manners, but the comment bothered Balin. Close friends might tease a younger dwarf about how far he was from sexual maturity, but he and Vili were nowhere near close enough to make it acceptable in Balin’s eyes. Apart from that, most of the party had never married, and it didn’t sit well with him that Vili had brought it to everyone’s attention that he had a wife and they didn’t. Before he was any more tempted to snap at the other dwarf, Balin took hold of the rope and started across. 

He was normally surefooted, and most of the way was no narrower than the beams he had sometimes walked during building projects. If he concentrated on the ridge just ahead and did not look down, it was not too bad. When he reached the narrowest part, he hesitated. If he tried to walk across and slipped, he did not think his injured hand had recovered enough strength to save him. In the end, he crossed it on hands and knees as the others had done. Once he reached the other side, Thráin followed, making the whole crossing on his feet and only relying on the rope for balance. 

The rest followed one by one, without incident. When Móin was safely on the uphill side, Balin had all he could do not to cheer. As Móin wound up the rope, Nidri announced, “In honor of this occasion, I have prepared a song.” He hummed a few bars, enough for everyone to recognize the tune of an old dwarven children’s song, and then began to sing in Khuzdul. It took a few seconds before it registered with Balin that Nidri had substituted his own words, and that they were a very vulgar commentary on Brunn and his trail and what should be done with both of them. Balin burst out laughing at the contrast between the innocent tune and the words, and looked around to see if Dwalin had heard. 

Instead, he saw An and his sons standing where Dwalin had been. The three of them looked either blank or confused as the others realized how Nidri had changed the words. They glanced at each other and around the rest of the group. A little after the others caught on, they laughed politely, as if they did not understand the joke. It might be that they had never heard the song before, but it had the sort of bouncy, cheerful tune that every race seemed to use for nursery songs. It seemed more likely to Balin that they did not understand the words. He thought back over the incidents that he had taken as evidence that the sons of An were unfriendly and wondered if he might have misjudged them.

As they started up the ridge, Balin nudged Dwalin and said, “I don’t think Anar and Hanar speak Khuzdul.”

Dwalin considered a bit. “You may be right. If An grew up in a family that was trying to be less like dwarves, he probably wouldn’t have learned the language. I suppose his wife might know it, but it would be hard for him to learn a language when he was already past one hundred, and hard for his sons to learn if he couldn’t speak it. I wonder if there is some way we could offer to help them?”

“ They are bound to be touchy about it, but if you can think of a good way to suggest it, we should at least offer.”

Dwalin nodded and seemed about to add something else when his gaze focused on his sleeve. “I don’t believe this! It’s snowing.”

 

Fortunately, Dwalin’s snowflake did not bring any others with it. For the next few days, they made good progress, finally reaching the headwaters of the Bruinen and crossing the stream to rejoin the road. Heri looked up and down the trail to get his bearings and announced that two more days should see them on the eastern side of the pass. The company greeted the news with a great deal of back slapping and raucous cheers in Khuzdul. Dwalin happened to be standing near Hanar and edged a little closer to murmur, “That’s Khuzdul for ‘victory’.”

Hanar startled and looked as if he would argue for a moment, then whispered back, “Please don’t tell the others. We’re trying to learn it, but Father can’t help us much and it embarrasses him. It’s no fault of his, and I won’t have anyone mock him for it!”

“No, no! We wouldn’t do that. Balin and I thought we could help you learn more of it if you wanted.”

“I’ll have to talk to Anar, but I think I can get him to agree,” said Hanar, a little uncertainly, but he gave Dwalin a hint of a smile as he went to rejoin his brother. 

 

The following evening, when they were only about a mile below the pass, it began to snow in earnest. Balin watched the flakes settle in his beard as the elders argued.

"If we push on now, we will be over the pass before the snow gets too deep," said Thráin.

"There is no need for that,” said Heri. "The High Pass doesn’t snow shut this early."

"As hard as it’s snowing now, we cannot take the chance. We must go on," said Thráin.

Heri shook his head. “Why? We couldn’t reach the Lonely Mountain this year even if were already across the pass. We can wait out the winter as well on this side of the mountains as on the other.”

Balin peered up the trail unhappily. Thráin was right; it was snowing very hard now, so hard that he had difficulty making out the path under the thin layer of snow. This didn't look to him like anything that would melt off straightaway once the sun came out. But attempting the pass at night in a snowstorm....

Heri seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "The pass is dangerous enough by day. On a clear night, we could probably manage it, but not when it's snowing so hard we can't see an axe-length in front of us. Even if no one misses the path and walks off a cliff, we will have injuries. We should wait here where there is at least a little shelter."

Several of the others murmured their agreement. The rock where they sat was undercut enough to keep the worst of the wind and the snow off of them. It was not much of a shelter, but far better than stumbling around in the storm.

Thráin looked around at his traveling companions. "Who is with me for crossing the pass tonight?"

No one spoke.

"Balin?" he asked, a little sharply. A dwarf had a right to expect loyalty from his kin and courage, if not outright daring, from the line of Durin. Balin shifted uncomfortably, but could not bring himself to agree with his cousin or to oppose him in public. The idea of going on in this storm worried him. Heri was the most seasoned traveler of them all, and he had been completely right about the Ford of Bruinen. If he said the pass never closed this early in the year, then why take the risk? As the silence lengthened, Thráin's disappointment grew almost tangible, but still Balin could not bring himself to agree. 

Thráin snapped, "Very well, then. If none of you has the nerve or the will to go on while we still can, we will camp here for the night." He turned away in disgust as the others began to make camp. 

Dwalin looked as relieved as Thráin did disillusioned, and that went some way towards consoling Balin. Close kin forges stronger loyalty; climbing in this weather was needlessly dangerous and his brother had to come first. Dwalin tossed him the other end of canvas they were trying to make into a windbreak and said, "You heard Heri. We'll be on our way again tomorrow."

Balin nodded as he hunted for a good spot to drive in the peg. "The first snow of the season never lasts long." 

In the end, it was three days before the wind finally dropped to a breeze and the snow ended. The camp now sat at the bottom of a soggy hollow melted out of the waist deep snow. Heri had had the foresight to make a platform of stones to lay the fire on so that it was not drowned by the melted snow that pooled at the bottom, otherwise, they would have gone the last two days with no fire at all. 

Móin forced his way out of sight through the drifts on the uphill path. He returned shortly to report that the snow was even deeper further on, too deep to wade through and too fluffy to bear his weight even when he tried lying down and rolling. "There is no going forward," he said with complete certainty, "and going back will be trial enough."

The heat of Thráin's anger and frustration should by rights have melted them a path straight through to Rhovanion, but the snow was impervious. Balin envied it. 

"Who has a suggestion?" Thráin asked, looking pointedly at Heri. Heri pretended not to have heard him.

"We could try another pass," suggested Nur cautiously, after the silence grew unbearable. 

“The East Road pass is closest, but it has more orcs than travelers these days,” said Móin, “not to mention that if the High Pass has this much snow, it won’t be clear there either, as near as it is.”

Thráin snorted. "The Redhorn Gate is certainly clear now, but it may not be by the time we could reach it.”

“No!” said Heri, nearly shouting. He stopped and took a deep breath, looking uncomfortable with everyone’s eyes on him. That in itself was enough to alarm Balin, since Heri never minded being the center of attention before. 

“What do you have against Redhorn?” asked Thráin. “It could have us on the right side of the mountains yet this year. I have heard the rumors, but I will not rule it out based on nothing but campfire tales.”

Heri prodded at the fire and muttered, “Something up there still hasn’t settled after Azanulbizar, and it doesn’t like Dwarves.”

Thráin waited for him to go on, but Heri said no more. Finally, Thráin burst out, “What was it? Why should we avoid the pass?”

“If I knew what it was, I would tell you! The Redhorn Gate has always had a bad name, but it’s worse since Azanulbizar. Nobody ever saw what did it, but something was after us the whole way. It cut climbing ropes—cut, not frayed; I know the difference. Boulders were pried loose and pushed down on us. We could see the tool marks, but they were very strange. One of the pack ponies was slaughtered when it stood no further from me than Vestri there. I watched it go down, but I saw nothing…nothing attack it. We lost four good dwarves to that pass. Even if it’s open, I will not cross under Redhorn again.” 

The others shifted and looked around, but not even Thráin had anything to say to that. 

“We could go even further south,” Frer said after a few minutes, “but there are no other good passes between Caradhras and the Gap of Rohan."

"Why not use the Gap of Rohan then? We would be doubling back an awfully long way, but at least we would be on the other side of the Misty Mountains," said Hanar.

Heri stared at him. "We can’t cross Rohan."

"Why not?" asked Dwalin hesitantly. "I thought they were among the Free Peoples. Have they fallen?"

Thráin shook his head and glowered. "They are enemies of our enemies, but they are no friends to us. For one thing, they have been at war with Dunland off and on for as long as Rohan has existed. They do not look kindly on anyone arriving out of Dunland, even if it should be obvious that we are not Dunlendings. Besides that, they are from the same people as Fram. We will not be allowed to pass unhindered through Rohan."

Anar and Hanar sat just beyond Heri, and Balin noticed Hanar frown and open his mouth to ask something before Anar poked him in the side. They must not have heard about Fram before. Maybe he could tell them the story later when they didn’t have an audience. 

Finally Thráin snorted and said, "I take it that no one has any better suggestion than to go back to Bree and wait for the spring thaw." He looked around the group, but none of them would meet his eyes. "I thought not. Very well then, strike camp. We will go back and try again in the spring."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fram was an ancestor of Eorl in the days before the Rohirrim moved south to Rohan. According to The Return of the King, Appendix A, The House of Eorl, "...he slew Scatha, the great dragon of Ered Mithrin, and the land had peace from the long-worms afterwards. Thus Fram won great wealth, but was at feud with the Dwarves, who claimed the hoard of Scatha. Fram would not yield them a penny, and sent to them instead the teeth of Scatha made into a necklace, saying, ‘Jewels such as these you will not match in your treasuries, for they are hard to come by.’ Some say that the Dwarves slew Fram for this insult.” 
> 
> At the time of this story, this incident was in the distant past, but probably still recent enough to make both sides suspicious of the other.


End file.
